AN: Hello friends, this chapter is a little short, but I hope you like it. My own meandering thoughts on how Sherlock survived dabble a bit into some magical realism which I love to play around with. This concept is actually what this whole (soon to be) series is about. I hope I do it justice. Thank you all who have kept up with me, I will try to not leave you hanging.
Additional tags: this author is a terrible person to poor sherlock
"Sherlock?" John says, trying to rouse him. He didn't notice before, but Sherlock's skin is burning with fever where it once was ice cold. He wonders how long he had been wandering around in the frigid March air barefoot and only in a cotton shirt and pyjama bottoms. He puts a hand on Sherlock's forehead and slowly tips it back so he can look into his face. He sees that he has a deep gash on his left temple that will probably need stitches, and he gently runs his fingers down his battered torso: broken ribs, then. At least two. "Sherlock," he tries again, and this time his pale eyes flutter open. Instantly, his face contorts into a grimace of pain, but he manages the semblance of a smile.
"You're still here."
"Yeah, mate. I'm here." Something lurches painfully in John's chest. It dawns on him that this is the first proper conversation he's had with Sherlock in over three years — something he never thought he would ever get to do again.
"You won't go?" Sherlock's brows come together in his trademark analytical frown as if still trying to suss out whether or not John was real.
"No. I'm here. I'm not leaving."
Sherlock bites his bottom lip uncertainly, and he brings a clammy hand up to John's face and paws at it clumsily, his energy spent. John lets him gather as much evidence as he needs, even bracing him by the shoulders to complete the circuit of physical contact. Finally satisfied, Sherlock nods. "Good. Okay. Good."
He suddenly hisses in pain as another rigid tremor wracks his frame that nearly has his eyes rolling to the back of his head.
"Sherlock! What's wrong? Where are you hurt? You need to tell me so I can help." John's voice is low and urgent, his Doctor self flipping on in attempts to subdue the oily panic in his gut because he's bloody scared there is something terribly wrong with his friend. His mind roves over all the life threatening possibilities, internal bleeding being at the top of the list. "I might need to call the hospital —"
"No!" Sherlock's hand suddenly grabs the front of John's shirt, terror etched into his face. "No hospital! Please, they'll find me."
"They who's they?" John tries to ask, but Sherlock convulses again, this time a sharp angonised scream makes its way past his lips as his body locks and trembles. John immediately thinks it a seizure, but it's all wrong, and within seconds, Sherlock is boneless again, but still conscious if just barely.
"Please," Sherlock whispers almost angrily, his eyes swimming in and out of focus. The Captain comes out in him just then, and before he's even conscious of doing it, he's half way up the stairs with Sherlock flung over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, and he's knocking open the door to the flat with his foot, dumping Sherlock unceremoniously on the sofa.
He groans and curls in on himself, shivering, and John grabs a thick quilt from the back of the chair and wraps it about him like a cocoon. He flies up the stairs to his room and grabs his med bag and runs back to Sherlock's side.
"It's my head, John," Sherlock grinds out through clenched teeth. "The walls in my head. They're all crashing, coming down —" His words are cut off again as another vice of pain winds itself around his frame, causing his spine to arc violently off the sofa before slamming him back down against the cushions. "Please. Do something. Make it stop," he bites out at last, reaching for John with one trembling hand as he digs frantically in the depths of his bag. The image is so hauntingly familiar it brings him up short for a brief moment. Sherlock's eyes are bright with tears, his face pleading. John's shaking fingers finally close around what he was looking for, and he kneels on the floor by the sofa.
"All right. I've got you," John says and sticks a syringe into Sherlock's arm before grasping that hand and holding it tight against his chest until the sedative kicks in. Sherlock's wild and fevered eyes never leave John's, and his grasp is impossibly tight as small, short-lived spasms continue to rocket through him. The pain traps the air in his lungs, and his mouth is open in a moue of distress. "Keep breathing, Sherlock. It's almost over, I promise, but you need to breathe." Sherlock shakes his head, panic creeping into his face before a stuttering gasp scrapes up his throat. Bit by torturous bit, and with John's continual coaxing, breathing comes a little easier and before long Sherlock's grip slackens, relief flooding his face. His eyes slide mercifully shut.
John's mobile chimes from somewhere breaking the silence, and he scrambles around in the semi-dark of the lounge until he finds his jacket. He thrusts his hand into the pocket and pulls it out with shaking fingers. It's a text message:
En route. Ten minutes MH
Mycroft must have been alerted via his CCTV surveillance, which is all well and good, because right now John is utterly at a loss. He scans Sherlock, and other than his contusions and a few broken ribs, he has no bloody clue what could be the cause of Sherlock's terrible pain. A list of deadly exotic diseases he's only read in texts swirls about in his head with horrifying clarity and threatens to pull him down into the mire of his panic. He mentally shakes himself.
"Get a grip, Watson," he says out loud to himself, and goes into the kitchen to fetch a bowl of warm water and a clean flannel. One thing at a time.
He returns to Sherlock's side and sits on the small coffee table in front of the sofa. The gash on his head definitely needed stitching. It had broken open again and was slowly oozing more blood, plastering the hair at his temple into a matted hopeless mess. As gently as he could manage, John began cleaning as much of the dried blood off his face and neck as he could. Every once in a while, Sherlock would moan softly, his eyes flickering rapidly under his lids which were shiny with sweat. John takes his temperature, and it was hovering just between 38 and 38.5 degrees Celsius. All of it, it was going from bad to worse...
John sighs, taking a brief moment to him self and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. He puts his head in his hands, and lets himself feel just a tiny bit sorry for himself. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. Sherlock was supposed to ride in on a blaze of glory, and they would go back to their funny life with tea and toast and bloody magnificent danger. He huffs in frustration disgusted with this wallowing lark, and he mentally kicks himself in the arse. Of course it wasn't that simple. He read the transcripts from that blasted file for chrissake's. God only knew what Sherlock went though just to get back to him. What those bastards did. He could murder someone, he really could.
He rouses himself out of his fugue when he hears quick clipped steps ascending the stairs. John can't even bring himself to stand when Mycroft walks in, he just sits looking forlornly at his friend with his hands clasped and hanging between his knees.
Mycroft makes an abortive gesture towards them then stops, shifting his weight anxiously from foot to foot.
"Is he – I mean – what happened?"
"I was hoping you could tell me that," John says and reaches for his bag again, pulling out a suture kit. "He says there are people after him."
Mycroft's face darkens. "There were," he says cryptically. John stops what he's doing, and trains a look on him that says 'don't-give-me-that-enigmatic-Holmes-shit-I'm-in-t his-too.' Wisely, Mycroft continues. "We found…a car off the highway not far from here upended at the bottom of an embankment. I made sure his abductors were taken care of. To my knowledge, no one knows he's here."
"Right. Good," John says, and resumes stitching up Sherlock's head. Both men are quiet, and Mycroft makes his way to stand at John's side to observe his brother. John makes the mistake of looking up briefly. The look on Mycroft's face startles him; it is a haunted look torn between relief, joy, and deep fissures of guilt. He hurriedly looks away feeling like he's being intrusive, and he really shouldn't be seeing…whatever it is he's seeing take place before him. That whole 'Iceman' persona really was a load of crap.
"How long has it been since you've seen him?" John asks eventually, tying off the end of the suture, and unwrapping a length of gauze.
Mycroft clears his throat. "Two years, eight months and nineteen days," he supplies automatically. The robotic response is at odds with the softness of his voice, and it's about as sentimental as a statement John's ever heard from the man. The fact that the response wasn't something arbitrary like 'A bloody long time, mate,' harkened to something deep within Mycroft's character. It was a contradiction to those who didn't know him, but based on the past few months, John was now able to feel the weight behind the seemingly clinical reply — how every day Sherlock was missing or in danger was like an iron chain of burden and guilt around his neck.
John has the grace not to say anything. Instead, he finishes taping the gauze in place around Sherlock's head in silence, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead to gauge his temperature one more time. It's still a bit warm, so he shucks off the quilt, and grabs the much lighter throw instead. Sherlock doesn't stir. If it weren't for the rapid motion under his lids, John would be more concerned.
"What did you give him?" Mycroft asks reaching out a pale, long-fingered hand to check the pulse in his neck.
"Sedative."
Mycroft makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. "With Sherlock's history giving him any form of sedation is most unwise."
"Hey, I know all right? But it's not like I had much of a choice!" John bristles under the implication of his incompetence, but let's it go for the most part. He angrily packs up his equipment, and crams it back in the bag. "He didn't want me to take him to hospital but he – I can't be sure, Mycroft, but is he sick?"
Mycroft's eyes snap to his in alarm. "Why do you say that?"
"He kept talking about – about the walls in his mind…breaking. He was out of his head with pain, and I don't know what's caused it. It's not something that can be associated to the injuries he has now. I checked him for head trauma and there's no indication." He scrubs a hand through his hair in frustration. "If you know anything, anything at all as to what this is, I need to know right bloody now, Mycroft. Medical history, the lot."
Mycroft's face pales, and with a weary sigh he sits on the edge of the sofa by Sherlock's feet. He contemplates his younger brother silently for a moment, bringing his tented fingers up to his lips in a pose that is achingly familiar. John waits patiently in the middle of the room with his arms crossed.
"You never asked me how he survived," he starts.
"It's not something I like to think about," John says shortly. "Besides I didn't think it mattered so long as he was alive."
"Do you honestly think Sherlock would have risked everything on the off chance that he would live through such devastation? That he didn't have a plan?" Mycroft arches an eyebrow condescendingly. "You saw him yourself. Living through that was nearly impossible."
Crimson blood and a set of bleached blue eyes flash through John's mind, and he winces. "Why don't you explain it, then? Did he grow a pair of ruddy wings?" he snaps, his patience, as always with the elder Holmes, worn thin already.
"Don't be obtuse, John," Mycroft says, ignoring John's snarl of irritation. "With his extensive knowledge of physics it's no wonder he researched the mechanics of surviving a fall from that height, however he couldn't settle with just surviving. What would have happened if the one thing that makes Sherlock who he is was damaged in some way? It would be worse than dying to him, make no mistake. He had to protect the one thing that mattered most to him: his mind."
The gears in John's head start to churn. The only thing he can manage through slightly numb lips is: "There was so much blood." A chill settles over him.
"Yes. There was. He fractured his skull, and there was an exorbitant amount of swelling. By all means he should have been a vegetable. The doctors didn't know what to make of it…" Mycroft trails off, the tone in his voice almost akin to awe. "The eve of the Incident, he warned me. He wouldn't give me many details, but he said if he survived — if his theory was correct — he would need urgent medical care and a body to replace his at Bart's."
"Theory? What theory?" John resists the urge to shake his head from side to side to clear the image of Sherlock strapped to a bed with tubes and wires at the notion of him becoming anything so abject as a vegetable, and tries to focus on the rest of what is being said.
"Sherlock's mind is like no other. He's a genius no doubt about that, but a long time ago he discovered his brain had unique properties unlike any other's that allowed him to treat it like a switch board, saving and condensing vast amounts of information while ridding other knowledge he deemed...superfluous."
"Well that explains what happened to the solar system and social etiquette," John murmurs, a sudden grin of relief, and perhaps hysteria, threatens to break out on his face. A thought occurs to him, and it almost makes him laugh outright. "So, hang on. Are you saying that this whole 'deleting' business is a real thing?"
"Yes. He always did call his brain a 'hard drive.' With as much information that Sherlock is able to process, he learned from an early age to catagorise the ephemera that he's bombarded with on a daily basis. When he was a boy he had trouble handling it, and at first our mother and the doctors thought he was a high functioning autistic savant. He didn't speak until he was almost six, and was absolutely loathe to human contact. The only person that could get through to him in the best of times was myself." Mycroft pauses, a slight frown on his face. "He was always responsive to me, and I knew instinctively they diagnosed him wrong. I taught him how to visualise — to imagine a way, a system, to file all of the information in his head."
"Wait, you taught him the 'MindPalace' thing?" His mind is reeling.
"Is that what he calls it?" Mycroft asks with an amused smirk.
"Are you surprised?" John says, his lips mirroring the other man's as if they shared some private joke.
"No. I guess not."
"Is that what you do? Er…I mean. You and him are a lot alike."
"What? Oh no. What I do is all intelligence and the study of semiotics. Mine are a set of sharply honed skills, whereas what Sherlock can to is pure, raw talent. I taught him all that I know, of course, but I haven't the faintest idea as to what really goes on inside his head. Many times he tried to explain it to me — this theory of his — and it was something I strongly advised against. You see John, he was under the impression that he could partition his mind so that if in a crisis, the core of him would be intact."
"What like a back-up drive?" John snorts.
"Precisely." Mycroft states, matter-of-fact, and the smirk falls from John's face.
"You're not serious? That's completely unheard of. It's not about 'MindPalaces' and 'hard drives' it's basic physiology. There's no way sheer willpower can prevent serious levels of brain damage."
"Well, you have your proof right in front of you, Doctor," Mycroft challenges with a sweeping gesture over Sherlock's prone form.
John gazes, dumbfounded, at his friend's face cast in shadows from the meager kitchen light behind them. Being the man of science that his is, he can't help the thrill of excitement that runs up his spine. From a medical standpoint, what Sherlock has managed to do is unparalleled and utterly groundbreaking. He comes over and sits back on the coffee table, unable to stop himself from examining Sherlock's head gingerly, mindful of the bandage.
"How did he do it?"
"I am under the impression it was through a method of some type of hypnosis. That's also where Miss Hooper came into play. Not only did he need someone to forge the autopsy and death certificate, but he needed someone to help guide him through the process."
John nods. He doesn't really understand any of it, but he's heard of success stories in alternative medicine that uses the powers of the mind to overcome all sorts of things. Being a doctor, and ultimate a trauma surgeon, he always rationed that he had been too close to the viscera of injury and death to really give any credit to new-age jiggery-pokery. But now there might be something to be said about it…
"Amazing. Truly extraordinary," he breathes at last. "Well of course it is it's Sherlock-bleeding-Holmes." He huffs a laugh, and tucks the throw under his friend's chin a bit tighter.
"It's a pity he's not awake. He does like to be conscious when someone is stroking his ego," Mycroft says.
As if on cue, Sherlock suddenly sucks in a breath, and keens deep in his chest in a sound of what can only be described as quiet, shuttered agony.
Mycroft and John hold their breath as they helplessly look on. Sherlock's breathing speeds up, pained bursts of air tearing through his clenched teeth, and he whimpers now and again as if being struck by invisible blows. John leans over him and tries to rouse him, but it's no use, he's trapped in his head and there is nothing they can do but wait for what ever it is to pass. John can't help himself but put a steadying hand on his shoulder. Slowly, Sherlock sinks back into oblivion at the touch.
"Did they do this, Mycroft?" John says darkly, violently.
"I'm not entirely sure, but my guess would be yes." Mycroft runs a hand over his face suddenly looking much older. "He was very adamant on keeping this bit of information about himself secret. He knew what someone could do with that knowledge if they found a way in."
"What does this mean then? Mean for him?"
Mycroft hesitates, the uncertainty on his face sending a jolt of terror through John.
"At the very worst, it would mean annihilation of all that Sherlock is."
